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Saturday, August 13, 2016

Woman Remembers Her Brutal 1975 Rape As a 12-Year-Old, and the Female Attorney Who Successfully Defended the Rapist

Not a darned cent was added to my AdSense account yesterday.  This can get truly discouraging.

My wife Jack arrived home last evening from Vancouver while my younger brother Mark was passed out in his chair in front of the T.V.

She was here to spend the night, but in no particular hurry at all to get to bed.  In fact, she helped herself to two cans of my beer that she put into the fridge's icebox to chill.

But that's okay ─ I get a kick out of her when she's having some drinks.  These beers are 8% alcohol.

When finally she announced that she was going to bed, I soon followed ─ everyone else had already retired, including my youngest step-son Pote and his girlfriend.

As I settled into bed, I checked the time:  1:58 a.m.

Jack had arranged with Pote that she would drive him to work at Guildford this morning, so her cellphone alarm sounded at about 8:30 a.m.

I had not been sleeping at all well to that point, and I guess Jack was not either ─ she looked tired.

But she kept her promise, and I had my opportunity to do a little work on the post I am trying to get finished at my Amatsu Okiya website.  Unfortunately, I only managed about half of what I had hoped to get done before Jack was home again.

She did a heck of a lot of cooking for us over the latter morning ─ we have three pots of some very tasty Thai-influenced dishes:  spaghetti, a Thai curry, and congee.

I only sampled some spaghetti ─ the rich sauce includes spicy sausage, and of course, hot chili peppers.  It was fabulous!

And late in the noon-hour, she left us.  I think she may have a physical therapy appointment here in Surrey, and then she'll return to Vancouver to work at Mango Thai Restaurant.

She surprised me as she left by mentioning that Monday will be her last day of working there.  The restaurant has been sold, and the new owners take possession on...Tuesday?

At any rate, she said she'll next be home on Wednesday.

I knew that the three owners were working at getting the restaurant sold, but this is the first I have heard that it was a 'done deal.'

Well, at least she won't have to be bothering herself with working downtown any longer.  But I have no idea what's in store now.

After she left us early this afternoon, I was soon to go out into the backyard to sit in a chair and face into the hot Sun for 40 minutes.  I started the session off at 1:15 p.m. and wore just some denim cut-offs.

It's a flawless Summer day for Sun worshipers.

My brother Mark instead sought a nap.


I want to post the following photos now ─ the description beneath them is from the Google album where I have the photos filed:

This is me on a beach in the Pattaya area of Thailand in January 2003.

Tukta ─ one of the three Thai ladies who had befriended me and were serving as my sightseeing guides ─ had surreptitiously arranged for me to get a massage by one of the middle-aged gals who perform the technique at many of the beaches.

I would never have otherwise accepted the treatment ─ I had never before undergone a massage.

I expect that it was likely Tukta who took this and a related photo.  I was unaware they existed until I was back in Canada and had gotten the film developed.

This is a rather disheartening story ─ it was published August 9 at DailyMail.co.uk.  I wonder how many Americans have heard anything about it?

In 1975, the little 12-year-old girl ─ Kathy Shelton ─ in the following photo was violently raped by a 41-year-old man and a 15-year-old accomplice:

If you refer to the article, you will see that Hillary Clinton was the adult rapist's defense attorney, and she apparently pulled some foul tricks to get the guy free of the charge of rape ─ Hillary Clinton reportedly even charged that the little girl had "a tendency to seek out older men."

Adult Kathy Shelton is now 54 years old:
For decades, Shelton said she had no idea that Clinton was the same woman as the lawyer who defended her rapist in 1975.
I'm just presenting the article ─ you can make your own conclusions concerning Hillary Clinton.  I'm not American, after all, so I'm not faced with having to vote in the coming federal election there.


I have known for decades that I have worn cartilage in both of my knees ─ even in my late 20s, I could hear what sounded like finely ground sand or glass 'squishing' in my knees whenever I ascended stairs.

It was embarrassing for me to have someone ascending stairs with me because I dreaded that he or she might hear it too. 

The condition worsened over the years because of the running I maintained.

And then in my early 40s, I was in some personal turmoil due to a bad romantic relationship that was breaking up, and I essentially ran myself into a state of painful lameness that took months to recover from.

My knees had become so traumatically damaged from several days of will-enforced running that the pain would not allow me to even hop up onto a street curb, and it was impossible to scamper across a street.

To try and get myself into the bed of a pick-up truck, or into a high pick-up truck cab, was nearly beyond my ability to manage.

To try to jump off a curb was such a frightening prospect because of the pain that would result, it was paralyzing for me.

I was practically crippled.

As I said, it took months before any sort of normalcy returned.

But I never took up regular running again.  I dared not.

Fortunately, cycling didn't seem to be much of a problem.

So I have badly worn cartilage, but I do not believe that I have a meniscal tear of any degree ─ but I just don't really know.

I never sought surgery for my painful problem, but  many people diagnosed with meniscal tears do submit to a surgeon's recommendation for the procedure.

Unfortunately for those who do get the surgery, studies are finding that physical therapy is just as effective for recovery in the long term, and the therapy will strengthen the knee and associated portions of the leg ─ surgery of course will not.

And physical therapy becomes a necessity after surgery anyway.

So why not just undergo extensive physical therapy in the first place ─ especially considering how expensive surgery can be?

And just how important is it to you to keep a surgeon bringing in those lucrative fees?

The most recent study about this seems to be this one published on July 20 in the British Medical JournalExercise therapy versus arthroscopic partial meniscectomy for degenerative meniscal tear in middle aged patients: randomised controlled trial with two year follow-up (doi: 10.1136/bmj.i3740).  

This article on that study will probably be easier reading:

But here are other recent earlier articles reporting on previous studies saying much the same thing:
Now, I did have knee surgery for quite something else ─ it was vital that it be done, or I would never have been able to bend my knee again.

I had torn my left leg's quadriceps tendon entirely clear of my kneecap, and my quadriceps muscles detached and sank uselessly down into the fleshy interior of my thigh so that my femur or thigh bone was very pronounced at the surface ─ all the meat of my leg was hanging below that bone.

I needed surgery to reattach that key tendon to my kneecap, or my leg would have to be braced and locked out at the knee for the remainder of my life.

The quadriceps would have just shrunk over time and probably become virtually nonexistent, buried away deep in my useless thigh.

The perils of being a fleshy human being.


The time has come for me to close off today's post with this entry from my journal of 41 years ago when I was 25 years old, and living in a rented basement unit in New Westminster.

The house that rented room was in was located on Ninth Avenue at Third Avenue.

Apparently I had quite an account of a dream that I wanted to record ─ it  mainly featured my father Hector and his girlfriend Maria Fadden.

Had I dreamed of them because I was  planning on visiting them this day in 1975? 
WEDNESDAY, August 13, 1975

I got up about 6:20 a.m., dreaming of preparing to go into Vancouver with dad & Marie one night from a suite I was living in; Mark was there, but he seemed to be resident there, too, as did dad.

Anyway, the pair were drunk.

He was fixing a meal, and had dropped a phone and radio; on the latter I could thereafter bring in but the station that had been set, no matter how the dial was turned, but further on in the dream different music played.

Marie was forever showing up wherever I went in the suite to be alone; I lied down on a cot or something covered with an overcoat, but not intending to sleep, only to have her come along and settle down with me as a pillow.

I arose angrily.

I lied widthwise across a bunk bed (lower) resting against a wall in another room, folding my hands across my face meditatively; she came in to inquire what I was doing.  I couldn't seem to escape her and her mindless conversation.  I wanted to exercise that night.  And the old man was something of an irritant as well.

Finally Marie, asking as if it were an honour and joy for me, requested I go to a nearby store and buy her a package of cigarette papers.

As she searched for a nickel I stormed to my room to dress up, the pair immediately noting my temper.  They followed, dad in one of his fooling around moods.

In a fury I took the hand he'd forced onto me and tossed him onto the bed, yelling at them why the hell they couldn't act more mature. 

This broke them up.

I commenced to have a maudlin conversation with teary-eyed dad, while attentive Marie doubled over in a crying fit.

I soon awoke, discovering myself with quite a hunger.  So for breakfast I enjoyed a pot of Friday's remaining Harvest Crunch.

Another sunny day is before me.

On my way to dad's, I stopped at the lake and basked from 11:00 a.m. - 2:00 p.m.; at one point 3 punks on motorbikes spotted me in my undershorts, causing me embarrassment; but I ignored them till they took off.

I arrived at dad's just in time to go with him and another tenant to that guy's suite; Marie bought his old stereo for $75, and I assisted dad carry the 5 footer.

Seems the three drank a mickey of rum; dad was sensible, but Marie really annoyed me with her squealing & hopping, patting & mauling, and endless repetitive gab.

For supper we had a meat ball stew; I had 2 plates.

I left at 9:00 p.m., and again ran all the way home from the freeway access route light near Century Park.  It took me perhaps 40 minutes.

And what with my exercising thereafter, I have never perspired so copiously.

Bedtime:  11:15 p.m. 
I had to take a break after typing out the above, and so I lied down and rested my covered eyes for maybe an hour ─ almost falling asleep at least four times.

Maria was a few years older than my father, and I could never understand why my father was with her.  It was annoying to me ─ I wasn't interested in visited her, but there was no option since the two lived together.

She was sweet enough when the two were sober; but once she was drunk, there didn't seem to me to be anyone who was more addled than what she became.

It's interesting how the term 'broke up' can both signify breaking into great laughter, or the alternate emotional state that is more correctly expressed as breaking down.  When I initially read that my angry exhibition in the dream "broke them up," I thought that it had made them laugh.

But I had meant the contrary ─ I had badly hurt them.

I'm glad it was nothing but a dream.

Following the dream, I say that I breakfasted on "a pot of Harvest Crunch" ─ I likely meant that I poured the Quaker Harvest Crunch into a small pot instead of a bowl, for I had few dishes.

If you are unfamiliar with the cereal, it is an extremely sweet granola-like cereal that tended to be stuck together in lumps ─ probably due to the amount of liquid sweetener the product was drenched with in its preparation.

I probably poured skim milk over it, for I usually bought a big bag of skim milk powder because I could rarely afford regular liquid milk.

My father and Maria were living in an apartment in a building located at 5870 Sunset Street in Burnaby:

I would walk to their apartment from my room in New Westminster, and then return to my room in the same fashion.

On this day, however, I first went over to the near side of Burnaby Lake for some sunning, likely situating myself on the cement base of a powerline tower well away from the lake itself, and reasonably near the freeway (Trans-Canada Highway).

To get to where I would have sunned, I probably used the Ramsay Creek culvert that ran under the freeway from Robert Burnaby Park:

The powerline tower base was far enough away from the freeway that I would have been invisible due to shrubbery around it.

The motorbikers were using a trail that was close to the freeway.  I think that there may have been a bit of a clearing from the trail leading over towards the powerline tower I was sunning beneath ─ the motorbikers might have ventured into that bit of clearing and noticed me in my underwear sunning.

I didn't have public-style shorts ─ I never wore shorts in public, so I didn't own any.  But I suppose that it's entirely feasible that the motorbikers might not have realized that I was in my undershorts and not in a bathing suit or regular pair of shorts.  
It is a fair detour to get to that sunning spot in relation to where my father and Maria lived, but I was a great walker back then.

After my visit with them for supper, I came directly home ─ but with quite a run involved.

I can't now say that I know where Century Park is, but it is likely related to Century Park Way as shown on this map, and "the freeway access route light" would have been at Kensington Avenue & Canada Way:

Apparently I ran from that intersection all the way back to my room on Ninth Street & Third Avenue in New Westminster.

And then exercised ─ whatever that involved!

I marvel at my younger self.  I had so darned much potential that was never to be realized.
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